


What a Lovely Way to Burn

by iamthemagicks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthemagicks/pseuds/iamthemagicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a bootlegger and Lisa is a dancer at a speakeasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Lovely Way to Burn

She wears a flowing purple dress that stops at her knees. Ribbons and flair dangle from her hips and around her waist. Sequins dazzling along her hips and up to her bust. Feathers in her dark hair that cascades by her shoulders, her nails painted a dark red to match her lips. She wears black stockings, high heels that sparkle.

Dean watches her from the bar, sitting on a stool nursing his gin. God she’s beautiful, shines under that spotlight, like she belongs there. Glowing like an angel. She sings low and honey-sweet, just like the color of her skin. She moves across the stage like a swan on water, twirls and dips. Winks at the boys up front, but she always blows a kiss to Dean in the back. He smiles all doofly, like a kid, and finishes his drink.

“Another, Mr. Winchester?” Gabriel asks from the bar. He’s already preparing it before Dean can answer. He slides the glass across the wood and Dean accepts, knocking back. “She sure is something isn’t she?”

“You have no idea,” Dean replies, licking the edge of his glass.

Her next song involves feathered fans and she starts to peel away bits of her costume. A drape of a sleeve here, the dress hiked up an inch there. She uses the fans to cover herself as she takes off a stocking.

As she’s finishing up, Mr. Zale comes down from his office. Dressed for the evening with a pretty young blond on his arm. His hair combed back, his hat on the rack by the stairs. Dean peels his eyes from Lisa and stares into his drink.

“How was today’s run?” Mr. Zale asks, staring at the stage. He stands next to Dean and Dean smells the waft of heavy sweet perfume coming from the blond.

“Not a problem.” He pulls a paper bag from his coat and slips it into Mr. Zale’s hands. 

“Atta boy.” He grins and stuffs the bag in his own pocket. “You’re my best runner, Dean.”

“Thank you, sir.” He sips and gives a quick glance at the stage. She sends out a wave for Mr. Zale who waves back at her. 

“Gotta another job. You’ll have to leave tonight.” He slips Dean a napkin with an address and a name, payment. “Pick up.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Mr. Zale grins like a demon and slaps Dean on the knee with a chuckle. “She’s real pretty, ain’t she Dean?”

Dean shrugs. “Easy on the eyes.”

“Dean,” Mr. Zale puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, edging him to turn and make eye contact. “You’re like a son to me, boy. We’re all a big family here, right? I want you to be happy, but don’t you go breaking my girl’s heart. She’s a flower, son. I don’t want her petals wilted.”

Dean swallows. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Atta boy,” he says again and gives Dean a nice jostle on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kisses the blonde on the neck. “Come on, Bella, let me show you where we do the real work.” He leads Bella away and grabs her ass on the way to the back room.

Gabriel leans forward. “You know he doesn’t really want you all over her right?” 

Dean shrugs and keeps his eyes glued on stage. Lisa waves and bows, blows another kiss to the audience before disappearing behind the curtains.

***

A few of the other dancers walk up and down the hall in the back, their heels clanking against the hard wood of the floor, their suits jingling. “Hi Dean,” they say and smile at him.

He nods. “Ladies.” 

They scurry away, moments away from missing their cue. 

Dean stops at Lisa’s dressing room. Her name is painted in fancy calligraphy, with vines and flowers as a decorating boarder. He knocks three times and stares at his shoes until he hears a sigh and a listless, “Come in.”

He opens the door and locks it behind him.

Lisa sits on a red stool in front of the vanity, with the giant mirror and bright lights rimming the surface. She’s rubbing off her make-up. He sees circles under her eyes, but she smiles when she sees him. “Hello,” she says.

“You were great up there.” He steps towards her. 

“You’re just saying that.” She wipes off her lipstick and starts to unpin her hair. 

The short cut style is all the rage, but Lisa doesn’t do anything Lisa doesn’t want to do. She keeps her hair long and styles it a thousand different ways for each show. Up with pins, braids with ribbons. She stands and places her rag on the table. 

She wears a long silk robe, pink and shiny. A soft smile is on her face, different from her stage smile. It’s smaller, like a secret, just for him.

They meet in the middle of the room. She has the biggest of the rooms, she’s Mr. Zale’s best dancer. Men all over town come just to see her, even if she only does one song a night, like on Sundays. When normal people go to worship at church, men fall on their knees for her. 

Dean rests his hands on her hips and bunches the material of her robe. She leans into his grasp, inhaling his shirt, stands on her tiptoes to kiss his neck. “You smell,” she tells him. 

Of gin and hay. Gunpowder and sweat. But she starts to unbutton his vest, untucks his shirt and loosens his tie. “I missed you,” she says.

“Me too.” 

The robe drops quickly, piling on the floor by her feet like a pool of silk. She’s left on her garters because she knows how much he likes to unsnap them and unroll her stockings, then run his hands on the back of her thighs. He grips her ass tight and lifts her and moves back, setting her on the vanity. 

Her body is a temple. Every inch smooth to the touch, always glowing. He marks her body in places no one will see. A purple bruise on the underside of her left breast, red marks on her thighs.

“Oh, Dean,” she breathes out and her head knocks back against the mirror. He takes one of her legs to hang over his shoulder before he dives right in to her cunt. His tongue in the velvet slickness of her heat and she tastes as fucking good and sweet as she looks. He laps at her folds, shifts his tongue above to her clit; he slips two fingers inside of her while he sucks, his tongue soft one moment, then rigid the next. She tangles her fingers in his hair and curls that one leg, bringing closer. 

“Dean,” she says again. 

He uses his free arm to keep her bucking hips in place as she comes. Her grip is vice-like in his hair and he keeps licking and stroking her until her body becomes limp and her leg drops. 

“Jesus,” she sighs. 

He lifts and then plops down on the stool, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. She leans forward and closes her legs. “You’re amazing,” she says. He just grins and licks his lips. He’s throbbing hard and he wants to be inside of her so badly. And it’s like she can read his mind—she can always read his mind—because she comes down from her table and undoes his belt and zipper. A few kisses on the mouth, on his cheek, as she works his cock out of his pants. 

He groans at the feeling of her hands against his skin. “Baby.”

“Don’t you like a little tease?” She whispers close to his ear. She licks the lobe, taking the skin between her teeth. 

“Not tonight.” He yanks her by her hips, down onto his cock. She’s so hot and wet, still throbbing. “Fuck.” And she starts moving, long strokes, but soft. His hands never leave her hips as he guides her. 

“Come on, baby,” she encourages. He kisses her neck and when he comes he snaps his hip upward and pulls her down. They sit there a few minutes. He presses his head to her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart. 

“I got a run tonight.” His voice is gruff and low.

“I know.” She threats her fingers through his hair and kisses his forehead. “What do you think of running away? Finding a nice little farm.”

Out in the country away from the city. The mobsters and the news. The cops. No other guys grabbin’ at her for a nickle a piece. A place of their own, not having to skirt around the flimsy permission. 

“Yeah.”

“I can be packed tonight.”

He laughs and looks up at her. “What’s the rush, doll?”

The look on her face is unidentifiable, down-turned lips, hair in her face. She adjusts his tie and smooths out his lapels. “Do you love me, Dean?” Her voice is soft, like the flower Mr. Zale compared her to. 

He swallows hard and almost avoids her gaze, but she holds his chin. Her eyes are dark brown and he sees her soul, her heart. The look makes him uneasy, but he needs it, needs her. “‘Course I do.”

“Promise?”

“You’re my girl, ain’t ya?”

The smile widens and she shifts in his lap. He’s still inside her, growing soft. “Good,” she says. “Because I’d really like to raise this baby with you and not out of the back of this joint.”

His brows furrow and he takes full attention on her. Glances from her face down to her belly, which is still flat. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She stands and goes to the closet to pull out some towels. She cleans herself up and pulls the robe back on. He sits there like an idiot, looking at her. She pins her hair up, strands still falling down and framing her face like a goddess. 

“Lise,” he says, buttoning himself back up. He stands behind her at the wardrobe, hands on her waist again, his chin on her shoulder. She smells like smoke and booze, lightly of some sort of flower. Expensive and from France. “I got a run tonight.” He kisses her neck. “But when I get back, we can go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” 

His parents left him and his brother a farm and a house out in Kansas. Sam took care of it, planted a field of wheat, vegetables. Kept a cow for milk and butter, chickens for eggs and eatin’. Last Dean heard, Sam had found himself his own gal. He’s sure that they wouldn’t mind sharing the house. Three bedrooms, no other person for miles. Yeah that would be perfect. States away where the only people that would know him would be his brother, and some of the old folk still kickin’ in town.

Her body shakes with what he thinks is crying, but he sees that she’s kind of laughing too. She whips around to kiss him, devour his mouth like she hasn’t seen him in weeks, hasn’t touched him in years. “Okay.” She wipes under her eyes. “Tomorrow night. I’ll be at the back door with my suitcase. You better be there.” 

Another kiss and she’s ushering him out there door. His stomach does jumpin’ jacks and he tries to keep his gawking grin from his face. He does the job like Mr. Zale wants, comes back with a car full of gin and moonshine. 

~

It’s past midnight when they leave. She tosses her suitcase in the back of his car and climbs in the passenger seat. No one seems to hear them leave. They drive out of town and don’t look back. They stop in Tennessee and get married and then don’t stop until they reach Lawrence. Dean stops the car in front of the house. 

“Ain’t much,” he says. But it’s standing.

And Sam comes out on the front porch, sprung up like a goddamn red oak tree. He’s drying his hands on a towel. 

“It’s perfect.” She hauls in her suitcase and trunks of costumes because she can’t bear to give them up. 

That night they lie together on a lumpy mattress, his hand on her belly and she hums some of her old numbers, tracing the shape of his ear over his hair.


End file.
